


All in the Family

by Polly_Lynn



Series: The Heliotrope Series [1]
Category: Castle
Genre: F/M, Family Feels, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Imaginary Babies, Romance, Team as Family, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2015-07-07
Packaged: 2018-04-08 00:48:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4284306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polly_Lynn/pseuds/Polly_Lynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He looks himself up and down. The jeans aren't ideal. He'd kill for a tie, or at least a pocket square, but he's pulled off bolder than this. His gaze jumps to Beckett. She's perfect, of course. Tailored today, and on the severe side, but perfect. He grabs her wrist, lacing their fingers together while she's too shocked to protest"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Incognito

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Let's call this a late S1 two-shot, though it has nothing to do with anything. A two-shot for Cora Clavia, whom I hate, hate, hate. This is theft. And kidnapping. And she is just the WORST PERSON EVER.

 

* * *

"Ryan's got the warrant." Beckett pockets her phone.

"That's good, right?" Castle's eyes dart from her to Esposito. The look passing between them strongly suggests it's  _not_ good. Not at all. "Right?" he asks again, but they're both ignoring him.

"How long?" Esposito flattens himself against the door and peers sideways through the narrow window.

"Ten minutes." Her face goes from grim to grimmer. "Fifteen, maybe."

" _FIfteen?_ _"_  Esposito hisses. "We don't have  _five_ thanks to Ignacio del Rio here."

"Acrobatic cat burglar from Spain," Castle explains for Beckett's benefit, but the hard stare says it's either unnecessary or just unwanted. Both is a definite possibility. He turns back to Esposito. "Flattering. But that lock was about as complex as the one on Alexis's Snoopy diary. How was I supposed to know it would break?"

"But it  _did_ break, Castle." Beckett's glare pins him a little bit harder to the cinder block wall. "And  _you_ decided to enter."

"You weren't supposed to  _follow._ _"_ He throws up his hands. "What is the good of having a civilian on your team if you don't leave the illegal stuff to me?"

Beckett looks like she has some choice words regarding what good this particular civilian is, but Esposito's already piling on.

"Tried to tell her to let you swing, but she's got this funny thing about not ditching people." He advances, one finger extended and a look on his face that has Castle wondering if the American military actually covers killing a man with one finger. "And now? If even  _one_ of the upscale mall cops this place is crawling with spots us, that's the whole bust blown. Fruit of the poisoned tree."

"Spots us," Castle repeats as inspiration strikes. He looks himself up and down. The jeans aren't ideal. He'd kill for a tie, or at least a pocket square, but he's pulled off bolder than this. His gaze jumps to Beckett. She's perfect, of course. Tailored today, and on the severe side, but perfect. He grabs her wrist, lacing their fingers together while she's too shocked to protest. "Come on."

He's already leaning into the stairwell door's push bar when Esposito jerks him back by the lapel. "The hell you think you're doing?"

Castle spins to face Beckett, talking fast before his brain catches up with the very scary idea that she's the softer target right now. "What are the two things we need?"

She pulls her hand free and arches one brow. "A silencer and a super-efficient way to dispose of a body?"

"Lanie'd help," Esposito points out.

Beckett  _hem_ s, like she's considering it. Castle rolls over them both.

"Time and access to Dana Kenyon's office." He clenches his teeth, impatient as they exchange eye rolls. "So we walk through that door." He jabs a finger toward the hallway. "Up-scale couple looking for opportunities to get more involved in the charity scene. But we're a little lost. We need directions. Maybe a  _lot_ of directions."

She turns to him, bright eyed. Convinced. "And we get the lay of the land with Dana Kenyon before she has any idea we're on to her."

"Couple? What the hell do I do while you're  _getting the lay of the land._ "

They both startle, Esposito having long been forgotten. They look him up and down in tandem, taking in the zip-neck sweater, work boots, and jeans that have seen better days. They look to each other and nod, in unison.

"Hide."

* * *

It's working. Castle takes the lead, chatting and chuckling. Screwing his face up and endlessly repeating directions back wrong to one suited security guard and another until finally a tall, slim assistant with perfect hair is announcing them—announcing Mr. and Mrs. Castle—to Dana Kenyon, Trustee of the Manhattan Generations Fund and their Lady-Who-Lunches-of-Interest.

"I'm so delighted you managed to find your way to me." The woman's demeanor as she retakes her seat behind the desk manages to convey the exact opposite. Impeccably politely of course.

"We . . . ah . . ." Castle manages a blush and a sheepish grin. "This is terribly rude, I suppose. No appointment. And the two of us just wandering the hallways, causing a commotion. But you see . . ." He turns to Kate, his voice falling to a hush. "We just came from Dr. Blumberg. She wanted to tell us in person, and well . . . oh, you just want to kill me, don't you sweetheart?"

"Oh,  _you._ _"_ She manages a laugh and lands a swat hard enough that Dana Kenyon clears her throat and looks away.

"You see, Ms. Kenyon . . . "

"Oh, Dana, please."

"Dana." Castle leans in, conspiratorial now, and shehates—absolutely  _hates_ —that he's good at this and she's not. That's she's stuck just kind of . . . clinging to him and following along. "Will you  _tell_ her? I've already been on this merry-go-round once, but Katie, well . . . she just won't hear that we've only got twenty-nine weeks until little Heliotrope makes her appearance, and we're probably  _already_ behind in terms of planning for her education."

Heliotrope.

_Heliotrope?!_

Kate's fingers tighten on his triceps as the word echoes and echoes and echoes. She feels him wince. To his credit, though, she's pretty sure no one not as painfully familiar with his every tic as she is would notice.

"Heliotrope." Kenyon— _Dana_ —manages a perfectly bred smile. "What lovely name."

"It's my Katie's favorite flower." He turns to her, so honestly adoring that she can't help but blush. "So when the doctor handed over that envelope. . ." He pats her absolutely flat stomach.

"No more callers, please." Kate manages to chirp the words even as she catches his fingers in a vice grip that says  _I WILL_ _MAKE YOU PAY_  in no uncertain terms.

"Well." The woman recovers. For the most part, anyway. "Heliotrope. That's just splendid news, I'm sure. But I'm not quite clear on how our fund fits in?"

Kate isn't sure about that either. She's not sure  _at all_ what possessed him to start spinning tales about little  _Heliotrope_ and her education to a woman who almost certainly murdered an intern to cover up the money she's been laundering through her charity. Worse, she's not sure  _Castle_ isn't just . . . possessed. He's  _way_ too into the story, moving disturbingly smoothly into the next phase of the con.

"Dana—I have the feeling you know me. My . . . reputation?"

The two of them share a look that suggests Dana is  _very_ familiar with his reputation, though maybe not quite as familiar as she'd like to be. It raises Kate's hackles and she's suddenly throwing herself into the part, hooking her arm through Castle's and practically resting her chin on his shoulder as she leans in.

"Oh, but, sweetheart. That's all . . ." She gives a small shake of the head and shoots Dana a look that's shy on the surface, warning underneath. "He's a changed man."

"I am. Since we met. I am," he says warmly, his eyes fixed on her, intent enough that her own drop.

She nudges his shoulder with her own, cursing her stubbornly silent phone and hoping to  _hell_ he's not on the verge of inventing an older brother for Heliotrope or something equally insane. It takes him a second. More than a second, and he's so freaking earnest she could choke him, but he picks up the cue. Eventually.

"A changed man," he repeats, patting Kate's thigh. "But the truth is, before Katie, I sort of fell out of the habit of . . . giving." The pause gives enough weight to the last word that Dana Kenyon sits up taller. "And I'm not naive. We've got our sights set on Columbus Park West for nursery school and that's going to take some work on our image. We're not  _just_  interested in writing checks, you see. I want the world to see how wonderful—how giving—Katie is, so we were wondering if you could talk to us about some of your more  _visible_ trustees?"

He casts a glance at the old-fashioned Rolodex. Dana nods briskly. "Yes. I understand. You're looking for  _meaningful_ work, and perhaps some introductions?"

"Yes, exactly. Introductions!" Kate doesn't have to pretend to gush, relieved as she is that they're doing something that looks like investigation if she squints at it.

Kenyon picks up the handset of her desk phone, and with the push of a single button, initiates a low-voiced conversation with her assistant.

Castle's tipping his head toward something—a thick stack of pages on the credenza along the wall opposite them—in a gesture do obvious that Kate's just about to give in to the urge to kick him when voices loud enough to carry through the anteroom stop all three of them cold.

"Javier!" Castle stomps on Beckett's words before she even knows what they were going to be. "Katie, doesn't that sound just like Javier? But he and Kevin . . . Oh . . ." He fumbles his phone out, like something's just occurred to him. "Would you  _look_ at that?"

He tips the phone toward her. A text to Esposito:  _Shut up. You're with us. We're on it. Shut. Up._

"I tried to use that pin thing with the map." Castle shakes his head like he's exasperated with himself. "We're meeting Javier for lunch and I sent him  _this_ address. You don't mind if I just . . .?"

He pushes up from the chair without waiting for an answer and slips out into the front office.

"Javier?" Dana Kenyon's polite facade is a little the worse for wear. Her voice is sharp enough to snap Kate out of the longing look she's casting at the door.

"Friend," she says, too loud. "Javier is a good,  _good_ friend."

"And obviously you wanted to share your news." Kate can't quite tell if the woman is probing or just making polite small talk.

"News!" That's louder still. Jerkier, but the voices have all but faded and she wants to know if that's good or bad. "Yes, we wanted Javier and his . . ." Sound swells again. Pleasantries now, though, and it's distracting as all hell. "His partner to be the first . . ."

"Partner." Castle sweeps back in. He gives a low chuckle as he stands behind her and rests his hands on her shoulders. '"Fiancé," he says, chiding her. "You know Kevin's going to make an honest man of Javier just as soon as the State of New York will let him." He turns to Dana with an apologetic look. "Heliotrope's godfathers. We're hoping anyway, hence lunch."

"Lunch," she repeats as though it all makes perfect sense now. Castle has her back on an even keel, just like that, and Kate hates him a little bit more.

"I am  _so_ sorry about the mix-up," she hears him say. She takes a flying leap at the conversation.

"Mix-up! Oh, don't tell me Kevin came here, too?" She moves to stand, but Castle's hand is heavy. "Rick," she says it through her teeth, and the  _honey_  she adds after the fact doesn't accomplish much beyond the dopey grin on his face. "Aren't we  _late_  for  _lunch_ if Kevin is already  _here?_ _"_

"We're fine!" He waves it off, circling to sit beside her again. "Javi's meeting Kevin downstairs right now." He leans into the words and tightens his hold on her hand. "The two of them will nip off for a little alone time—you know they keep busy—and Dana can still show us those materials she was going to . . . Oh." He breaks off as if he's just thought of something else. "Oh, Dana, you are just going to  _hate_ us." He shifts in his seat toward the door. "I'm afraid Javier needed to borrow your assistant for directions. This really is the  _most_  confusing building."

Kate doesn't know if Dana Kenyon is suspicious or just sick of them. She rises, looking more than a little dazed and murmurs, "Of course," as she heads into her assistant's office at the front of the suite.

_"Heliotrope!?"_  The back of Kate's hand connects with his chest the second the door snicks closed. "What is  _wrong_  with you?"

"It was off the top of my head," he says absently as he darts behind the desk and goes straight for the credenza. "And she bought it." He casts a glance around the more-than-a-little-too-too office. "At first it seemed like the kind of name she'd buy, but it's growing on me."

"Growing?" She glares at him hard enough it actually kind of hurts.

"Like you really ought to be by eleven weeks." He circles his fingers in the general direction of her abdomen. "Money launderer she may be, but she's not the sharpest knife in the drawer." As if the desk between them might save him, he risks a glance at her. "Would you like to help?" He gestures to the file folders and stacks of papers peppering the flat surfaces. "We've got maybe three minutes of snooping and maybe ten for probingly clueless questions about probable accomplices before Esposito, Ryan, and the warrant make it up this floor."

"Fiancés." She sounds stupid, spitting out single words like this. She shakes herself and sets to work, moving efficiently from pile to pile, her mind taking in names and dates and transaction amounts and somehow still reeling all the while. "What was that even about?"

" _Los padrinos?_ " He flashes a grin over his shoulder. "That was just for fun."

* * *

 


	2. Someday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: "She's going to kill Castle the absolute first chance she gets. She'd kill Esposito and Ryan, too, for the part she has no doubt they've played in spreading the story, but she'll wait a while on that. She'll wait until their desks stop filling up with thick wedding catalogs and tacky engagement presents."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Second chapter—now complete. Again, be on the look out for nefarious characters like Cora Clavia. Learn from my cautionary tale.

 

* * *

Her desk is full again. She hasn't been gone five minutes and it's  _full_ of bright pastel bags and boxes hastily wrapped in paper featuring chubby, smiling baby faces or silver script congratulating her on her upcoming blessed event. And the pièce de résistance—one of those horrible calendars with babies dressed as flowers and the last eleven weeks already  _X_ d out.

She's going to kill Castle the absolute first chance she gets. She'd kill Esposito and Ryan, too, for the part she has no doubt they've played in spreading the story, but she'll wait a while on that. She'll wait until  _their_ desks stop filling up with thick wedding catalogs and tacky engagement presents.

"Not that one!" Castle calls out just as she's about to sweep one of the bigger gift bags into the the third box. Fourth, maybe. She's lost count of how many she's filled.

It's mostly cheap, silly stuff—bibs and teething rings and corner-store onesies—but the shelter she called sounded excited enough about it. Better still, they're happy to take it, gift bags and all. She just has to snip off the tag cards and fish for envelopes without actually unwrapping anything.

"Just not that . . . oh, wow." He pulls up short and takes a big step backward. "Wow. You're still mad." Another step. "You are still  _really_ mad."

She reaches down to her desk chair and plucks a pink inflatable plastic ring from it. "Oh, why would I be mad, Castle?"

He frowns at the pillow. "This is the wrong kind anyway. totally useless. What you want is . . . " His sense of self-preservation belatedly kicks in. " . . . probably not to talk about post-partum pillows in the workplace."

"You THINK?" She throws it him.

He catches it, considering just a second before he rolls Esposito's chair out and deposits it there. "Ok, ok. But that one . . . the bag. It's not a joke." He edges toward her cautiously. "Look. Not a baby bag. It's for you."

She does look. She doesn't  _want_ to, but he's looking eager. He's looking as shy and as contrite as he can manage. She hates to admit it, but he's piqued her curiosity. She tugs at the ribbon holding the two handles together and fans aside the spray of tissue paper. An incredible scent wafts up to meet her. She bends for a closer look.

It's a tiny, tight cluster of fragrant purple. She reaches in to lift it out, surprised to find the the little pot wedged in so carefully and resting on a plastic tray to catch any moisture from the bottom.

"Heliotrope?" She's trying hard not to smile, but it's such a pretty little thing. The color is gorgeous even in the harsh bullpen light.

He nods, trying for neutral, but he's proud of himself. "They're actually pretty easy. Shade tolerant, and they can go a few days without water. Good for window boxes or a roof . . ." He looks uncertain suddenly. "Do you . . . you have to have  _some_ place . . . A little bit of outside?" He trails off, his face falling like he's sad at the thought she might not.

"I do," she says quietly, surprised that her voice is a little thick. "I've got a couple things . . ." She starts to tell him. Starts to think that she could  _show_ him and shuts that down quick. "I have a place."

"Good." He bobs his head. An eager nod before his eyes drop. "I  _am_  sorry, you know." He flicks a hand at the spread of gifts. "Cop humor. Think I kind of . . . underestimated the power. I wasn't . . . for once I wasn't trying to make trouble for you."

"Yeah, well . . . it's a gift, I guess." She kicks at one of the boxes at her feet. She wants to give him a hard time. She wants to make him squirm a little, but the sight and scent of the little clutch of flowers do their work. "If you were  _really_ sorry, you'd help me pack these up, though."

He moves instantly, grimacing as he peeks in at one cheap, tacky thing after the other. "The shelter can really use this crap?"

"So they say." She lifts a bag out of the box at her feet and sets it aside. She wants its corner and the leftover space around it for an awkward oblong package. Bath toys or something. "I guess crap is better than nothing at all."

He stills. She looks up and catches him staring at the small bag she's just displaced. "What?"

"Nothing," he says, hurriedly going back to work. "Just . . . nothing. You can send them like this? Still wrapped?"

"It's from you, isn't it?" She knocks the bag with her knuckles. Of course it's from him, now that she looks. The paper is high end. Deep, subdued purples, with shapes punched out here and there. Prams and rattles and a stork carrying a bundle. The padding looks like hand-dyed raffia. No Party City or Dollar Store for him, even for a joke. "Castle!" she says sharply.

"Um. Maybe?" He swallows hard. "Ok,  _ok_. I was weak. But the flowers. Those are genuinely an apol . . . oh, don't  _look._ Just . . ."

He tries to reach past her when she goes for the bag, but she slaps his hand away.

"Baby Heliotrope will  _end_ you, Castle."

She  _has_ to look now. She snatches it up and plops into her chair, spinning away from him. Her fingers sift through the raffia, brushing something outrageously soft every once in a while.

"Castle," she breathes as she lifts it out. A tiny knit sweater that criss-crosses in the front like a kimono. The yarn ripples with every shade of purple—every shade the flowers will take on as they move through a year's worth of seasons.

"There's a . . ." he stammers. "A little hat, too."

"Oh my  _God_." She reaches for it, her fingers running over every inch as she spreads the sweater in her lap. The frilled little brim with a contrasting emerald satin ribbon running above it. "This is . . .  _illegally_ cute. Castle."

"I  _know_." He drops into his chair, leaning to look over his shoulder. "Little girls' clothes. They're like a  _drug._ _"_

"You realize how that sounds?" She twists to give him a look.

"Hey, I  _have_ a little girl."

"You have a  _fifteen_ -year-old."

"Don't remind me," he grumbles. "I'm telling you, though. Everything is so cute and tiny, whether its frills or tough little overalls. And that's before you even have it  _on_ her. When you see it with their chubby little fists and . . . Like a drug," he says again. He clears his throat, embarrassed, but he can't resist. He reaches out to trace a finger around the soft perimeter of the tiny sleeve. "And I obviously just blew ten years' worth of sobriety on these. You  _might_ show a little sympathy, Beckett."

She turns to him, scowling. Playing it up like just like him, but the truth is, she's speechless with how  _weird_ this is. How ridiculously . . .  _moving_ and entirely too prone to make her picture toothless blue-eyed smiles and tiny pink fists. She shakes herself before the moment can get any further away from her than it already has.

"Well. Some little girl down at Phoenix House is going to be the envy of everyone." She folds the sweater, trying not to linger, but it's hard to let go.

"Unless." He's staring at the floor, then abruptly  _not_ staring at the floor. Abruptly, he's staring at  _her_ and there's no mystery at all to what  _he_ _'_ _s_ picturing."You could hold on to it."

"Hold on to it?" she echoes and somehow it's not scornful like she meant it to be. She  _definitely_ meant it that way, and she can't think how she went wrong.

"You know. For someday." He goes red. Completely red, like he hadn't thought how that sounds, and even so, his mouth keeps moving. "I mean. You can't be thinking of depriving the next generation—the  _world_  of . . ." He makes a sweeping gesture, all up and down her body. He's going for salacious. Kidding. That's what he's going for, but his eyes fix on hers, and he's not kidding at all. "You'll want it someday, won't . . . won't you?"

 _That_  jars her out of it. The quiet, earnest question that calls up the way he looked at her in Dana Kenyon's office. The way every detail came so easily to him.

" _Castle!"_ She manages to make his name a reprimand, but she's as red as he is. She can feel it from her toes to the tips of her ears.  She stuffs the hat in the bag, poking it down on top of the sweater and pushing the whole thing away like it's red hot.

"Ok, ok." He holds up his hands and scans the desk like he's prepping to fend off any and all throwable things. "So we're not at the stage of our partnership where we discuss family planning."

"We will  _never_ be at that stage." She hurls an unwrapped pack of burp cloths into the open box between their feet. They land softly, of course. They're burp cloths. It's tremendously unsatisfying. She roots around for something heavy. Something that might break something else, and gives him a narrow-eyed look. "Got it?"

"Never," he says almost evenly. "Got it."

They both go back to the task at hand. Working with their backs to one another now, because it's not quite gone. That awkward,  _compelling_ moment lingers just enough that he's as happy to have the busy work as she is. It quickens their pace, at least, and everything's boxed up soon enough.

"Well. That's that." He slaps on a last piece of tape and pushes to his feet, like he's going all of a sudden.

He is. He seems to be going in a  _hurry,_  and she tells herself she's glad about it. That they sooner the sun sets on their imaginary daughter, the better.

"That's that. Thanks, Castle." She says, pulling against a tight smile that doesn't know quite what it wants to be. "Thanks for helping me clean up  _your_ mess."

"Anytime." He smiles, too, but he's fidgeting. Nervous. Or still uncomfortable.

The idea leaves her with an odd, blue sort of feeling. "Ok. Well. Night."

"Night." He's halfway across the bullpen when he says it. Stabbing at the elevator button and barely giving her a wave over his shoulder.

She looks away. Presses down on at whatever it is that's trying to well up. She scoops up the little flowerpot and sets it carefully back in the bag, trying to remember the lift their scent gave her just a moment ago. She uses her toes to nudge the sealed-up boxes under her desk. She should get someone to help her bring them down, but she doesn't feel like it. She'll take care of them in the morning.

She rolls open the big bottom desk drawer to retrieve her purse and there it is. She has no idea how he—the least stealthy person she's ever met—managed it, but there it is. The purple bag, brimming with hand-dyed raffia and the little hat just peeking out. He's torn the card off the handle. Whatever he wrote originally, he's torn away all of it, save a ragged corner crowded with tiny letters.

_For Someday._

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Bebe Heliotrope thanks you for reading. I hang my head in shame.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is ridiculous. I know this is ridiculous. I am ashamed of it. But it's Cora Clavia's fault. Briefer second chapter up tomorrow.


End file.
